


half of my soul, all of my heart

by Alienu



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Guilt, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Morally Ambiguous Character, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alienu/pseuds/Alienu
Summary: Dream shuffles even more forward, coming to settle just on the other side of the bars. His fingers brush against George’s, so cold it’s almost startling, and George leans back enough to allow his hand to slip through the crack between the bars and his fingers to slip against Dream’s, pressing their palms together as their fingers intertwine. The way their hands slot together is perfect, as if Dream was made for him and he was made for Dream, the burning warmth of his skin enough to soothe the icy coldness of Dream’s.Partners, Dream had said once.Soulmates, he had countered then.“Hey,” he breathes, affection warming his chest.“Hey,” Dream smiles back, eyes soft.George visits Dream in the prison, and wonders just what kind of monster Dream had to be to get himself there.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 81
Kudos: 647
Collections: MCYT





	half of my soul, all of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> speedran this from yesterday lawl

The prison, George discovers, is far more intimidating on the inside then it is on the outside.

Their footsteps bounce off the walls as he follows Sam deeper in. Everything about it is terrifying — the redness crawling up the blackstone walls like vines, the eerie silence that fills the air, the chilly temperature that makes it seem as if every breath would exit in a cloud of white mist… it makes the hairs on his arms stand on ed and goosebumps rise on his skin.

Sam says nothing as they walk in, past the rows and rows of empty cells and spotless metal bars. The air is tense, and George feels oddly bare without the safety of his weapons and armor on his body. The precautions had been alarming, and Sam’s uncharacteristic grimness had made an odd sense of trepidation begin to fester in his gut. He pushes it away, taking in a breath as the hall comes slowly to an end, their footsteps slowing. The last cell, at the very end, is where they stop. Sam looks at him.

“I’ll come back to get you in thirty minutes,” he says, eyes brimming with sympathy yet his voice somber. “That okay?”  
  


George nods, offering him a grateful smile that feels a bit too forced for his liking. “That’s fine,” He assures gently, “thank you.”

Sam nods, turns on his heel, and leaves, the sound of his footsteps fading away as he retreats. Only when he’s out of sight does George sigh, turning to peer through the iron bars of the cell. He sees a flash of green, and then Dream’s eyes rise to meet his, bright even with the dim lighting. There’s a set of iron cuffs clamped around his wrists, a chain connecting them, and his head is leaned against the side of the blackstone wall as if bored. Probably bored.

George settles down on the floor, crossing his legs and allowing his hands to slide over the cool metal. Dream greets him with a slow blink and a slight rattling of chains as he shifts in his spot.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, voice low and raw, as if it hadn’t been used in days. George allows himself a halfhearted smile. “Did you bring a blanket while you’re at it? It’s cold in here.”  
  


“I can tell,” George plays along, “did Sam not install heaters when he built this thing?”

“Apparently not,” Dream chuckles, “you don’t think you can sneak in here and warm me up, then?” Even now, he’s teasing. George’s cheeks flush. He gives a good humored huff, fingers curling a little tighter around the bars.

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbles, leaning his head against the barrier keeping him from the man on the other side. Dream’s laugh is soft, and George wonders how anyone could have seen something inherently bad within the man before him. Dream has never been anything but teasing with him, gentle, a reason to live in the days spent waging wars and losing trust in people meant to be friends. 

In all honesty, a part of him blames Tommy, for causing all the trouble with his stupid discs and need for revolution.

The other blames himself, for avoiding the problems and retreating to his home deep in the woods instead of trying to help.

The clink of chains crashing together pulls him out of his distant thoughts. He blinks, gaze flitting upwards to watch as Dream shuffles even more forward, coming to settle just on the other side of the bars. His fingers brush against George’s, so cold it’s almost startling, and George leans back enough to allow his hand to slip through the crack between the bars and his fingers to slip against Dream’s, pressing their palms together as their fingers intertwine. The way their hands slot together is perfect, as if Dream was made for him and he was made for Dream, the burning warmth of his skin enough to soothe the icy coldness of Dream’s.

_Partners,_ Dream had said once.

_Soulmates,_ he had countered then.

“Hey,” he breathes, affection warming his chest.

“Hey,” Dream smiles back, eyes soft. “How have things been?”

“Lonely,” he admits, a little more serious, “I still think we should’ve just ditched this place.”

Dream hums thoughtfully, forehead pressing against the bars. His eyes flutter shut, “We should’ve,” he agrees quietly, “but the prison isn’t so bad.” George scoffs, and he just shrugs in return. “Empty and cold, sure. But not so bad.”

“I think these iron bars are pretty bad,” George mutters, lifting his other hand to drag it over the cool metal. Dream dips his head in resigned agreement, knowing there’s nothing they can do. A wild, reckless part of George wonders for a brief moment how difficult it would be to grab his pickaxe, which sits in the visitor’s chest at the prison lobby, and dart back to break the barrier separating them just so he can touch Dream without the restriction of his cell. He wants nothing more to reach forward, take Dream’s sun-kissed face into his hands and press kisses to the freckles that decorate his face like the stars dot the sky at night. Some part of him is wholly convinced that Dream was made by some otherworldly being who sculpted him from starlight and spacedust, the remnants of shattered galaxies and dying stars. Everything about him is just so _perfect,_ almost unnaturally so, his flawless skin and silky blond hair are enough evidence of this.

George lets his free hand rise up, pressing into the skin of Dream’s cheek and running his fingers over the curve of his jaw, then over the rough patch of hair on his chin where scruff has begun to grow. Dream allows him to, even tilting his head into the touch, golden lashes brushing against freckle dusted cheekbones as George’s pale fingers carefully run over the expanse of his face. It’s bittersweet, really.

A noise rumbles in the back of Dream’s throat, sounding more like an amused hum than anything. “Maybe you’re just clingy.”

He lets his hand fall back to his side. “Maybe I am.” He concedes, a smile dancing on his lips. “Maybe I just miss you.”

Dream presses his forehead against the bars, his breaths warm on George’s lips. “ _Maybe,_ ” he drawls lowly, tongue darting out to swipe along his bottom lip and his cheeks flushing with a gentle pink, “you should stop saying those things before I end up breaking these bars with my bare hands.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already done that,” George laughs lightly, leaning back and trying to cool the heat pooling in his gut from hearing Dream’s tone. “Am I not good enough for you?” He asks teasingly.

Dream’s eyes dart away. “I think the problem is that you’re too good for me.” 

“That’s not true,” he rebukes immediately, the air turning grim. 

Dream’s reply is a callous shrug, and then a soft, “There’s a reason I’m in this cell, you know.”

“I know,” he murmurs, thinking back to all the horrible things Tommy had said about Dream’s wrongdoings, whether it be blowing up the community house (George remembers the icy despair that had gripped his bones when he had arrived at the ashy remains, the one memory from happier times in their world destroyed with little to no reasoning), or tricking Tubbo and Tommy into thinking he was their friend, or even threatening to kill Tubbo (for good, that time) in order to get Tommy to stop and listen. He shakes his head slightly. “Trust me, Dream, I know. It’s all anyone ever talks about.”

A humorless laugh slips from between his lips. “Not surprised.”

They sit there in silence for a few moments, Dream’s thumb tracing absentminded circles on the back of George’s palm in the exactly same way as it always does. He wonders again for a few moments if the Dream that Tubbo and Tommy had fought against was even the _real_ Dream, his Dream. It’s so unlike him — Dream had only ever really wanted to keep peace in their world so it was safe for his friends to build and love and laugh till their heart's content — that he couldn’t help but have trouble believing their stories.

“Was it worth it?” He asks eventually. Green eyes dart back to meet his.

A thoughtful hum rumbles in the back of Dream’s throat. “Well,” he begins, “everyone is happy, are they not?” A bittersweet smile dances on his lips. “One big, happy family. United again, yeah?”

“I’m not happy,” he murmurs. Dream laughs quietly. “Not without you.”

“Well you’re sitting here, talking to me.” He lifts their intertwined hands, pressing a chaste kiss to George’s knuckles. The skin that his lips brush over tingles with fire. “I think that’s a pretty small price to pay for everyone else.”

_“I_ think that your concept of value is skewed,” George grumbles. Dream laughs again.

His eyes dim a little, though his tone is light. “I’m a horrible person Georgie, what can I say?”

“You’re pretty horrible,” George agrees playfully, a subtle attempt to lighten the mood that seems to work, judging by the way Dream snorts and reaches through the bar to flick at his forehead. He grins despite himself, brushing off the light pain that blooms under his skin.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Dream whines good-naturedly. George rolls his eyes, choosing not to answer, and they fall into another comfortable silence. The hum of redstone in the building’s walls serves as a sort of background noise as they savor each other’s presence, the knowledge that it won’t last much longer churning in the back of their minds.

George sighs, inhaling Dream’s scent that smells like warm oakwood and summer flower fields, faded from the musky blackstone walls and Nether smell that the prison emits. He knows that this is wrong — sympathizing with the ‘villain’ of their world. He knows that Dream’s actions are near inexcusable and that things could’ve been resolved far more peacefully. Yet for some reason he can’t bring himself to be mad at Dream in the slightest. Sure, he’s _annoyed,_ but he still holds the memories of many sleepless nights spent listening to Dream’s sardonic explanations about having to become the villain to make everyone else happy, the times they’d spent watching the stars and picking out constellations until George had begun to trace his own constellations on the freckles speckled across Dream’s face, the mornings before Tommy when Dream would burst into his room with a boyish grin and ramble about their plans for the day until George would drag himself out of bed with an exasperated groan and affectionate grin.

Nothing about that is evil, is it? In a way, George thinks it’s almost selfless — how Dream was willing to lose everything just so he could bring everyone together again, even if it meant making him the most hated person on the server.

The sound of approaching footsteps drags him out of his thoughts. He glances to the side, seeing the glimmer of Sam’s enchanted armor at the other side of the hallway, steadily coming closer. Dream seems to notice too.

  
“Looks like our time is up,” he says simply, and there’s a pang in George’s chest from just how defeated Dream looks. Resigned. 

He swallows back the lump in his throat, promising softly, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Dream smiles, untangling their hands and already beginning to pull away, the warmth of his fingers sorely missed. “I’m looking forward to it,” he responds quietly. He tilts his head, offering another despondent smile from the darkness of his cell that makes somberness weigh heavier in George’s chest. 

  
“Okay,” he murmurs, getting to his feet. Sam stops a few feet away, watching the scene with observant red eyes yet not saying anything. He swallows again. “I love you.”

Dream doesn’t reply, only nods his head, and George takes that as a sign to leave. He turns on his heel, striding away from the cell and greeting Sam with a short nod. The warden motions for him to move first, and he does.

“You know he’s a bad person,” Sam says quietly, when Dream is just out of earshot. His voice is blank, holding no remorse even as someone who had considered Dream a friend up until just a few days before.

George glances away, feeling numb.

“I know,” he mutters. 

It doesn’t change anything. Dream still holds a place in his heart, bad person or not.

_He’s half of my soul, as the poets say._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated!
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Alienu_)


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